Shining Through (23 page)

“For God’s sake!” he said. And then he added, “Oh, sit down.”

I sat. “Here.” He leaned forward and put his handkerchief right in front of me on the desk. I hated using it, because I thought: How am I going to get this back to him? but I used it anyway; my nose was running. Except for my

166 / SUSAN ISAACS

sobbing, it was absolutely quiet, and I think I finally spoke only because I didn’t want him to fill the silence by telling me to get a grip on myself or, worse, that he was sorry he’d upset me.

I took one last sniffle and looked up at him. “Mr. Leland, I’m sorry to be carrying on like this.” Nothing resembling an emotion showed on his face. “I’d like to explain things.”

“That is not necessary, Mrs. Berringer.”

“I think it is.”

“All right. Go on.”

“I know you think I’m inconsiderate, and you’re right. I didn’t consider that I was working for you too. I didn’t consider it for a minute. You know why? I was carrying on with Mr. Berringer—”

“This really isn’t necessary.”

“I know, but please listen, anyway. I got pregnant, Mr. Leland.” His black eyes widened, not because he was surprised; I’m sure he wasn’t. He was surprised I was talking about it. “I know it’s something people don’t discuss in polite company—but I’m not such polite company. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve already figured out Mr…. that John didn’t marry me for my money or my great mind. He married me because he had to.

“So you’re right,” I went on. “I was a wreck and I didn’t think about anyone beyond myself. Well, I thought about my mother.

She’s a drunk and she’s not in the best of health and I support her. But maybe you already know that from the FBI or whoever checked me.”

“Yes, I know about it,” he said softly.

“So all I can do is apologize and say this conversation is probably as uncomfortable for you as it is for me, but I want to set the record straight. Like you guys say, there were extenuating circumstances.”

“I understand.”

“But just because I got myself in trouble…”

“Go on.”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t work. Okay, maybe I can’t come to the office during the day, but I could come in real early or SHINING THROUGH / 167

real late. I don’t want to louse you up. I know…well, I don’t
know
, but I figure what you’re doing is very important, so until you find someone else, I’d like to do whatever I can.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to manage without you.”

That was it. Like the sergeants say in all the army movies:
Dismissed!
I picked up my pad and pencil from the floor and took that long, familiar walk across his office rug again. When I was halfway to the door, Edward Leland called out: “Mrs.

Berringer.” I turned and faced him. His soft handkerchief was balled up in my fist.

“Yes, Mr. Leland?”

“Whatever happens…” For the first time since I’d known him, he hesitated. “You’re all right. Don’t ever sell yourself short.”

1 2

H
enry and Florence Avenel lived somewhere in West-chester, in an important-looking white house with pillars that would have been perfect for Thomas Jefferson or Scarlett O’Hara but seemed a little much for a bulgy-eyed corporate lawyer who looked like a toad in a striped tie. So the house was grand, although a couple of steps down from palatial, but whoever the Avenels had bought it from had obviously gone bust—probably in ’29—and, before giving up the last of their mint julep dreams, had sold off most of the ole plantation. Just as you drove up and were about to go Ooh! you saw another, newer, smaller, semi-Tara on the left and an English Tudor squeezing in on the right. If someone in the Tudor had sneezed, it was so close—separated just by a border of trees shaped like lolli-pops—Florence Avenel might have said Gesundheit!

Mrs. Avenel was not only polite; she was wildly enthusiastic.

“John!” she gushed, as we came through the door. “This must be Linda! John, she’s lovely! Beyond lovely! Like Jean Harlow brought back to life!” I bore as much resemblance to the movie star as she bore to Minnie Mouse: barely any, but enough to comment on if you were truly desperate for something to say.

“But she’s
so
much finer-looking than Harlow, of course.” She had to say that, naturally. She wasn’t going to risk telling her husband’s partner that his new wife was a ringer for a world-famous platinum-blond slut. “Congratulations, John!”

Then she beamed at me, not failing to take in my midsec-168

SHINING THROUGH / 169

tion, which, I’d made sure, was covered by the long, boxy jacket of the black faille dinner suit I’d bought. (I’d known purple and low-cut were wrong, but was less sure what was right. So I’d come out of the kitchen after finishing the dinner dishes and asked John if I could have some money for a dress for the Avenels’. He’d gone to his wallet and handed me two fifty-dollar bills and said, Is this enough? The hundred dollars had made me mute, but I’d nodded yes, it was enough. The next day, I marched into Saks Fifth Avenue and looked around until I found the perfect salesgirl; she looked like one of the executive secretaries: a Vassar type with a tight mouth and a tighter behind. I told her: I’m going to a Saturday night dinner party with a bunch of Wall Street lawyers. What’ve you got? She’d raised both eyebrows but picked out the suit and a soft gray silk blouse to go with it, and told me, Wear pearl earrings. Ha, but I’d worn my hair down to cover my ears. When I walked out of the bedroom, all dressed and ready to go, John looked flabbergasted.

Like Mrs. Avenel, he’d probably been expecting red sequins and chewing gum. He was caught so off guard by my lack of bad taste that he mumbled, Oh. You look beautiful.) Mrs. Avenel at last spoke to me. “My dear, Henry and I are so very, very happy for you.”

All those years, Gladys had actually been managing to mimic Mrs. Avenel pretty well. “My dee-ahr.” From the imitation, I’d always imagined an overpowering woman with a bust so commanding it could easily lead a battleship across the Atlantic. But Mrs. Avenel was tiny, barely five feet tall, and so thin the bones on her chest stuck out, like a chicken’s. She was wearing a floor-length bottle-green dress with a deep V neck and a sash, which looked more like an overdone bathrobe than a hostess gown.

She took my arm and led me across a hallway with a marble checkerboard floor, toward the living room. “Now tell me, my dear, how long have the two of you been married?”

“Five days.”

“Ah! Five days! You must call me Florence.” She smiled up at me. I smiled back; it felt unnaturally broad—the smile 170 / SUSAN ISAACS

you make standing in front of a bathroom mirror looking for food stuck between your back teeth.

But after a second, I realized she was no longer appraising me. Her eyes finally fixed on John, and now that she’d done what was proper with me, she could concentrate. Concentrate was putting it mildly. Little Flo was beaming at my husband with the intensity of a radio signal on top of the Empire State Building. Her gaze broadcast a powerful message: Wow! Wow!

Wow!

And he, of course, was smiling back. Hey, I could have told her, that’s the smile he gives to hatcheck girls and the building superintendent’s wife. And to secretaries. Obviously to every female. That smile is his routine you-are-bewitching-and-you’ve-captivated-me-completely smile. It’s pure reflex, like a jerking knee, and he does it to reduce you—and all of us—to jelly, so just in case he wants something from you, you’re ready, available, thirsting to do whatever it is he wants. Come on, Florence, you’re fifty years old, not very bright, eagle-beaked and chicken-breasted. Do you think he wants you?

She did. And so did they all. Florence led us into her living room, with its high ceiling, tall windows and long sofas, and every woman in the room fell into silence and gaped at my husband. Then John smiled, a general nice-to-see-you smile, but the women, obviously remembering previous, more personal smiles, like the one bestowed upon lucky Florence, all broke into joyous grins of gladness.

“Everyone!” Florence Avenel trilled. “
This
is Linda.”

It was only then that the women’s eyes turned to me. And their husbands’ too. Seven or eight partners of Blair, VanderGraff and Wadley opened up the tight knot they’d been standing in by the fireplace, glanced over and smiled at me. Not the way John smiled, of course, but courteously enough. A couple of them waved. After all, I’d become a wife. Their faces were a blur, but then Mr. Wilson lifted his cocktail glass in a toast. “To the newlyweds!” he said, and suddenly glasses were raised and ten or fifteen cultivated voices were repeating: “Nyoo-lyweds!”

SHINING THROUGH / 171

And then there was silence as all those well-bred people, the toasting out of the way, just stared. For the men, seeing me in black faille, with makeup on and hair loose, was discomforting.

It upset the normal balance of things, as if their barber had all of a sudden showed up at a partners’ meeting in a three-piece suit and plunked himself down at the conference table and said, Hiya, guys.

The women gazed in cool assessment…well, maybe not so cool. A couple of fast looks were flashed between two older women in print dresses, and a stunner of about forty, with ivory skin, gray-blond hair pulled tight into a chic chignon, and brilliant red lipstick, lowered her glance from my suit (which I guess was okay) to my shoes (which, from her quickly sucked-in cheeks, obviously weren’t).

“Well,” boomed Mr. Avenel as he came over. He pushed a martini into my hand with so much heartiness I nearly spilled it. “How’s the new bride?”

“Fine,” I said, and then everybody, relieved, began to talk again, lots of tight, buzzing conversations.

“Well, let me introduce you to the ladies.” He grabbed my free hand and pulled me across what I think was a Chinese rug—anyway, it was blue, with flowers—to the women. “Claudia Boland, Mimi O’Connell, Sarah Weedcock, Lorraine Wilson…”

He spoke so fast I had no way of knowing who was who, although I guessed Lorraine Wilson was the freckled one with a big jaw, because she was such a good match for Mr. Wilson, who also had freckles and resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Mary Shawcross, who’s here with Ed Leland…” I hadn’t seen him. I made myself not turn around to the pack of partners by the fireplace. Mary Shawcross smiled just enough to show teeth like perfect tiny white tiles. She was the elegant one, with the pale, pulled-back hair and red lipstick. More than elegant. Almost beautiful, with high cheekbones and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes.

I took a gulp of the martini. “Carrie Post,” Henry Avenel continued, and I came face-to-face with the woman whose husband was spending all his evenings with Wilma Gerhardt and paid for Wilma’s manicures—to say nothing of her fox 172 / SUSAN ISAACS

jacket and an endless supply of silk stockings. The pudgy, cheated-on Mrs. Post summoned up her good manners and managed a “Glad to meet you.” It took some summoning; this quiet, double-chinned woman had to work at being cordial because she
knew
—I just knew she knew—and the sight of a former secretary with a lawyer’s wedding band on was, to say the least, painful.

“Oh,” Mr. Avenel boomed on, “let me not forget our Ginger Norris!” I turned, expecting a pug-nosed tennis player. Instead, I saw a woman in her mid-fifties, who was a real pill; while all the others had managed a decent “So pleased,” or even a plain

“Hello,” Ginger just inclined her head, as if she was doing a Queen Mary imitation.

And then, right after the introductions, things went back to normal. Mimi spoke to Sarah, Lorraine spoke to Mary, and everyone spoke to everyone—except to me. All of a sudden, I was alone with my martini. And I realized then that all that momentary graciousness had been exactly that: a warmth that lasted about sixty seconds.

So I just stood there, the only one not being talked to, and the only one being watched. I sensed it. Quick, sideways glances.

And if I’d wandered over to inspect the Avenels’ framed flower pictures or toddled off to the bathroom, they would have known how I’d felt: frightened and alone—heart pounding—in enemy territory.

I took another long sip of my martini. I hated gin, and ver-mouth and an olive didn’t help the situation. I glanced across the room and watched the men murmuring to each other. They stood around the fireplace, which was filled with a giant urn of yellow chrysanthemums. A deep, manly hum arose from them, an uninterrupted hum, as if they were having an endlessly fascinating conversation. John was sandwiched between Mr. Norris and Mr. O’Connell, and all three were nodding in absolute agreement. I took a step to the right and saw they were nodding at who I thought they’d be nodding at: Edward Leland. Mr.

Leland looked content, content with whatever he was saying, content with the way his high-powered partners hung on to his every syllable, and

SHINING THROUGH / 173

probably most content that after dinner was over he’d be taking Mary Shawcross, her chignon, her exquisite cheekbones and her bright red lips home.

There was one good thing about the dinner itself—the hot rolls.

There was more than one bad thing. First, watching the crazily elaborate ceremony of carving the roast beef. A maid carried the roast into the dining room and slowed down as she passed Mrs.

Avenel, who gazed at it with so much pride you’d have thought it was her firstborn. Then the maid, with the heavy silver platter resting on both palms, continued down the length of the table, all the way over to Mr. Avenel, and lowered it before him. He pushed back his chair and lifted up the fork and carving knife laid out before him, cut a slice and held it up on the fork. Some blood dribbled back into the platter, and he said, “Voilà!” I looked away for a second; the martini—and maybe the pregnancy—had made me dizzy, and queasy.

As Mr. Avenel began to carve in earnest, he breathed hard.

His eyes bugged out even more than usual, and his face got all flushed and damp. He was nervous, anxious to do it just right, as if he was the high priest of some religion, finishing up a sacrifice to a bad-tempered god. As he labored, the maid ran up and down the table, handing out the meat. I couldn’t stand the smell.